The night began with rain. Heavy, stubborn rain that blurred the glass walls of Hale Corporation and drowned out the city noise below. Most of the staff had already gone home, leaving the building dark except for the faint hum of the emergency lights and the steady patter of water against the windows.
Amara didn't notice the time. She was too focused on the gown displayed in front of her — the one Dominic had insisted she rework for the upcoming gala. The delicate fabric shimmered under the soft desk lamp, every thread catching light like liquid silver. She'd been adjusting, stitching, and fixing for hours, frustration tightening her shoulders.
She didn't hear the elevator at first. Or the slow, deliberate footsteps behind her.
"Still here," Dominic's voice cut through the silence, low and rough.
Amara turned sharply. He stood in the doorway, his suit jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, dark tie hanging loose. His hair looked slightly damp, raindrops glinting under the light.
She swallowed, trying to sound unaffected. "Someone has to make sure your impossible deadline is met."
He stepped inside, the sound of his shoes echoing in the empty space. "You could've gone home hours ago."
"I could say the same for you," she countered, returning to the mannequin to pin a hem.
Dominic's gaze lingered on her — the way she moved with precision, her brow furrowed in concentration, the faint curve of her lips when she muttered something under her breath. She wasn't just talented. She was captivating.
"I didn't know designers worked this late," he said after a moment.
"I didn't know CEOs checked on their staff after hours," she replied without looking up.
He smiled faintly. "I don't. Only when they're stubborn enough to ignore time."
Their eyes met then — just for a second — but it was enough to change the air between them.
She tried to break it. "I need to finish this."
He walked closer. "You're overworking yourself."
"Because you're never satisfied," she shot back, irritation hiding the flutter in her chest.
Dominic stopped a few feet away, watching her fingers tremble slightly as she adjusted the gown. "You think I'm unfair?"
"I think you like control too much."
"And you don't?" His voice dropped lower, not angry but teasing — dangerous.
She froze, needle in hand. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," he said quietly, taking another step toward her, "you challenge me even when you shouldn't. You look at me like you're daring me to lose control."
Her pulse quickened. The rain outside grew louder, thunder rolling in the distance.
"Maybe," she whispered, "you need to be challenged."
The tension snapped like a live wire.
Dominic moved before he could stop himself. He reached for her hand, stopping her from sewing, his fingers brushing over hers. She gasped — soft, startled. The contact sent warmth racing up her arm.
"You should go home," he murmured.
"Then let me finish this."
"Amara." His voice was different now — not her boss's voice, not the man who gave orders. It was quiet, strained. "You don't understand what you're doing."
She turned to face him fully. "Then explain it."
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "You make it impossible to think straight."
Her heart slammed in her chest. The words hung between them, fragile but real.
She stepped closer — just a breath away. "Then stop thinking."
Dominic's restraint cracked. He reached out, his hand brushing her jaw, thumb resting beneath her chin. For a moment he just stared at her, as if giving himself one last chance to walk away.
But he didn't.
He leaned in, slowly, hesitantly — their breath mingling, his eyes locked on hers. When his lips finally touched hers, it wasn't soft or polite. It was urgent, years of restraint and frustration breaking at once.
The kiss deepened, hungry yet uncertain, his hand moving to the back of her neck while hers clutched the front of his shirt. The storm outside raged harder, as if mirroring them.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless.
"Dominic…" she whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.
He rested his forehead against hers, eyes shut. "This can't happen."
"Then why did you let it?"
He stepped back, guilt flickering across his features. "Because you make me forget who I'm supposed to be."
Amara's chest tightened. "And who's that?"
"The man who doesn't mix business with desire."
She gave a bitter smile. "Too late for that."
He looked torn — the mask of control slipping, replaced by something raw. "Amara, I—"
The lights flickered suddenly, power cutting for a brief moment before the generator hummed back to life. It jolted them both back to reality.
Dominic straightened, stepping away completely. "You should go home. I'll have a driver take you."
"Don't." Her voice trembled slightly. "Don't pretend that didn't just happen."
"I'm not pretending," he said quietly, heading for the door. "I'm surviving it."
She didn't follow. She just stood there, heart racing, lips still tingling, watching the man who'd just kissed her walk away like it meant nothing.
When the door finally closed behind him, the silence felt heavier than before.
Amara touched her lips, the memory of him still lingering. Whatever had started tonight wasn't over. It was just the beginning of a dangerous pull neither of them would be able to escape.
Outside, the rain continued to fall — steady, relentless — like the storm they'd both tried so hard to deny.